Ouroboros Spine and you bet your life it rains

for anyone that’s welcome near the den

still was the charcoal boy. one would think him deceased had they not approached. but he did stir, occasionally. only to eat or softly cry. enough for his @Lótë not to fret.
oh his sweet mother. he had not to chance to gaze upon her as she did him. not until the morning of the thirteenth day.
lómion awoke in a sea of mother’s fur. it was gentle on both his touch and eye. an astonished noise came from the boy — louder than any noise he’d ever made — before kneading at her belly.

the gift of sight, new to their brother, had come to inkalorë some days ago — but none would ever know it, for the star-child had promptly shied from the discovery, and firmly kept their own counsel on the matter. the first weeks of inkalorë's life had so far consisted of wanderings within their own mind, and little else; to have this routine disrupted left the middle-born baptiste feeling oddly disjointed. so they kept their eyes shut as often as possible, only rousing when something startled them enough to make them forget that they were avoiding their newfound ability.
which is exactly what lómion's outburst does. the star-child jolts awake at the movement, paws shooting out and striking @Wilwarin's flank. the full-body flinch sends their head careening into their brother's neck, an uncharacteristic wail bursting from their lips at the force of the contact. everything is blurry and too bright for the child who has all too quickly become accustomed to darkness, adding to the rudeness of their awakening. frankly, they liked life in the womb much better.

had he’d known the consequences for his noise beforehand he’d keep to silence. but lómion was no seer. his sister took a blow from their sibling, and so too did he. the usually quiet den was brought to life with inkalorë and lómion’s cries.

Lótë fretted, as much as any new mother, but despite how quiet her children were — save for her vocal Vairë who was already proving unabashed in voicing her emotions — they were active, healthy. All but Wilwarin, who was often lethargic and had to be roused constantly to feed even when she seemed disinterested in eating. 

She busied herself with her brood, swooping to gently nose at Lómion’s inky lips — whispering kisses against her firstborn’s sooty muzzle as he explored his surroundings. Her lips swelled into a sunbeam of bright joy, a full-fledged laugh -- a rarity -- breaking from them when Inkalorë startled their siblings and set the whole litter to crying in discomfort.

”Oh, my loves. All is well,” she promised between amused chuckles, bending and nosing the little ones so that they might nurse if they were hungry or just wanted the comfort of the motion. Her fawn muzzle swept gently over the pudgy, squirming bodies of fuzz — breathing in their soft scent as she swept her lips along their spines and shoulders, their tiny heads of down. 

For a moment, she allowed her attention to fall entirely on the youngest of her cubs — nosing Wil, inspecting her delicately for any injuries. 

The cries of her brothers was what woke the fawn. Still new to wolf skin, she pressed her tiny paws into the earth, splattering them with dirt and bits of fur, trying to rise but finding more amusement in squirming like an earthworm than anything else.

Vairë managed to bobble head her way up, tipping her little nose all the way back to look up at the foggy, cream colored shape she’d been laying against, and squeaked, aghast. So her warm vibrating pillow was a blob? Distressing news for something so young. She didn’t understand it, especially not when the crying finally registered with her, and she joined in the symphony of squeaks and squeals, as her bobble head journey ended up with the top heavy thing on her shoulders tipping her over, rolling her onto her back like a turtle or beetle.

That brought more shrieks. The unfairness of this world to someone so small was immense.